Incompatible
by AlanAlexHolc
Summary: Red did it. After finally being accepted into college as well as moved away from Bird Island, Red is ready to put the past behind and set out for bigger and better things. Yet little does he know that a woman will be joining him. He'll find himself falling for the engineer after and every bitter fight and frustration. What'll happen? Human au RedxSilver. Rated T, might become M
1. What Did I Do to Deserve This?

I'm just gonna go ahead and say it: if you're reading this and expecting to dive into some grand adventure to foreign lands with mythical struggles, danger, and romance, you're going to be sorely disappointed. Allow me to be a cold splash of reality: this isn't one of those stories. This isn't some sappy fairy tale where the hero is a beloved character fighting for justice and freedom with the love of his life clutching his shoulder. Oh god no!

This is a story of how my life went from a fucking nightmare to… well… Okay, so it's still a nightmare but at least it's tolerable. I used to live with Chuck and Bomb, for christ's sake! What'd you expect?

It all started in the fall of 2019. I was _finally_ accepted into Avian Academy, Art and Architecture major. Surprisingly enough, Chuck and Bomb came along, too. Chuck got in on a full scholarship for the track and field team and Bomb applied for a degree in Pyrotechnics as well as a couple of other classes in the field of Chemistry. We rented out a fraternity house just for the three of us.

Yep; Chuck, Bomb, and me. Just the three of us. A couple of dudes being dudes. That is until… actually, we'll get to that later.

Anyway, the whole idea was great. Moving to Florida, living on our own, becoming mature adults, and discovering who we were as individuals (oh my god, I sound like a fucking hippy). And the best part of all, we would be leaving Bird Island.

Finally! After years and years of spending my entire life trapped on that goddamn island, I would finally be leaving it all behind. I would finally be free from the smiling, waving, good golly inhabitants who never accepted me for who I was. Who raised me yet neglected me. Who showed nothing but disgust when they saw the little red-headed boy walking down the street.

Oh! Uh... I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? It's just that-

Okay. You know what? I'll just stop and let the story explain itself. It's better that way.

Are you ready? Here we go.

—

I lug the heavy box up the long flight of stairs, the cardboard flap digging into the flesh of my neck. I thunder up each step, my shoes scuffing along the floorboards noisily, trying my damndest not to fall to my death.

Jesus Christ! Why did we have to pick the one house that had three stories worth of stairs?

I reach the top with a definitive step, sweat beading from my forehead. I make a beeline for my room, weaving around the stairway balcony and racing down the hallway, and burst through the door, inhaling a large breath of chilled air blasting from AC screwed into the window. I plop the box onto the bed and lay myself down next to it, the springs of the mattress screeching under my back. I pant quietly for a minute, catching my breath as the frosty air breezes over my face.

Thank God I had the foresight to purchase that AC unit before we settled in or else we'd be baking!

And maybe shoving all of my stuff into just one box wasn't such a good idea.

Nah. I'm fine. Besides, at least I'm not carrying one duck-taped box after the next like Chuck and Bomb are outside. It'll take them hours to fully unpack.

I grin to myself. The room I now reside in is much more spacious compared to the small apartment I used to rent out back on the island. My bed is set next to the large window, my head now resting just under the hunk of metal that is the air conditioner, so that when I wake up the sun is there to greet me. The rest of the space is bare, flooding with fresh, warm sunlight streaming through the glass of the window, a golden opportunity for some remodeling with what little cash I have stored in my wallet.

This feels nice. All alone in my own room in a house that _I'm_ paying for (partly), going to school where I can learn what _I_ want to learn, surround myself with _my _own kind of people instead of the goofy grinning beach bums that populate Bird Island. Just free free free.

The sound of footsteps clambering up the stairs mingle with the loud rustling of boxed items being violently jostled. Chuck's sandy blond head pops up through bars of the stair rail as he rounds the corner at a full-on sprint. He balances three half-used FedEx boxes in his slim arms, clearly struggling to carry the overflow of athletic shorts and USA Olympics posters. He zips by my door in flash of yellow, but then suddenly backpedals into view faster than the average human can walk backwards, his face half concealed by a pair of draping Adidas sweats.

"Wait! You're already done?" Chuck asks dumbfounded, his voice muffled by the cargo stocked in his hands, surprisingly not winded from the long flight of winding stairs and the godawful heat outside. He isn't the official, infamous "Fastest Man on Bird Island" for nothing.

I sigh heavily, blowing a lock of blazing red hair out of my eyes, gaze returning to the popcorn painted ceiling. "No, Chuck. I'm just waiting for you guys to bring all of my stuff up to me on a silver platter. Maybe I'll even let you guys do my laundry and put it away." I remark sarcastically.

"Yeah right, as if I'd ever do that for your lazy ass." He swings is head, tresses of gold sweeping over his forehead. He drops his load at his feet unceremoniously, his belongings clattering loudly as he plants his fists on his hips.

I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees. "Bomb would."

"Not if he knew you were lounging about up here while we're doing all the dirty work."

Doesn't he know fucking sarcasm when he hears it?

I roll my eyes. "Mmhm." I hum.

The walls suddenly rattle as the front door slams shut downstairs. Even from the third floor, I can hear Bomb grunting with effort with all of his belongings in tow. He too ascends the steps, each footfall an earthquake shaking the floorboards, and is huffing and puffing by the time he meets up with us.

"I think… that's… all of it." Bomb wheezes. A sheen of sweat gleams on his dark brow, the lenses of his red-rimmed glasses fogged with perspiration.

"Please tell me you didn't just grab all of Red's stuff from the truck," Chuck states sternly.

"Nope." Bomb returns. "This is all mine. Everything else is yours."

Chuck turns to me, his pale eyebrows knitted together. "Wait! So all of your stuff is in that one box?" He points to the cardboard cube perched on the crumpled comforter. It looks small and pathetic compared to the mountain of items piled high in Bomb's hands.

Oh no!

My heart jumps and suddenly, it's extremely hot.

Holy shit! Who turned off the AC?!

But the continuous flow of crisp wind surpassing the back of neck assures me that it's working just fine.

"Um, uh…" I falter.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!

Think, dumbass! Think!

"Uh, yeah," I say, almost unconvincingly. I clear my throat. "I-I decided that I would, um, get some new stuff while we're here. You know, a new desk, some clothes, maybe another desk."

Come on! Think think think think fucking think!

I rub the back of my head vigorously as if to force the gears in my brain to turn. "Yeah, uh… Yep, just doing some redecorating. New town, new me." I smile, but just from how the corners of my mouth are turned upwards it probably looks more like a painful grimace. Feels like it, too.

The two share a glance, and I can't help but notice how much they differ from one another. Chuck's at least a head shorter than Bomb, deeply tan and very blonde. Underneath the bright canary yellow tracksuit, his body is slim and taunt from the multitude of 5ks and marathons he's participated in. His large, celery green eyes are full of mischief, matching his sly grin. Bomb, on the other hand, is the complete opposite of his yellow-clad friend. He's tall and broad, dark skin smooth and clear like black velvet. Proud barrel chest, muscular arms, and small, stunning light eyes. The top of his neatly shaven, tightly coiled black hair is divided by a thick strip of dyed yellow.

Despite these differences, their uneasy facial expressions are a perfect match.

"Oh," Chuck responds emotionless. And then _boom_! He grins, his green saucers alight. "Why didn't you say so?" He asks all too enthusiastically.

Damn! Thank god for Chuck and his hyperactive brain for overlooking my statement. And Bomb, of course, will easily follow suit.

Jesus fucking christ! That was close.

"And B-T-dubs, your last room before was so middle school. I can say that now." Chuck upturns his nose, almost snobbishly as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Wow. Thanks." I comment, crossing my own arms over my chest dejectedly.

"Hey! Why don't we go furniture shopping after we unpack?" Chuck suggests.

"Let's do it!" Bomb cheers.

Before I can even protest, the two dash off through the halls, babbling about couch colors and tv sets. Chuck's stuff still sits at my doorway, but I don't call him to come to pick it up. He'll get around to it sooner or later. I fall back onto the bed, splaying my arm over my eyes.

That was way too close. If they found out that I had nothing, they'd never look at me the same again. I'm not saying that I have anything to hide or that I don't trust the two, it's just that… it's complicated.

You know what? Fuck it!

Just to give you a good look at my shitfest of life, I'll enlighten you: I grew up in foster care. For as long as I can remember, I was handed off from one shitty family to the next, most of the time the second one worst than the first. Everything I was given-from clothes and toys to lies and broken promises—was taken away from me just as quickly. For years I endured one heartache after the next, the tear in my heart deepening ever so painfully until it was reduced to a pile of shredded nothingness.

I learned to not cherish tangible objects. It's not like I'll get to keep most of the things I gain, so why get attached? I became familiar with this when I graduated high school and moved out on my own, but even when I had the opportunity to get whatever I wanted, I couldn't afford fine luxuries such as a lamp or an expensive memory foam pillow. And when I got a job, I saved all of my earnings for college. And here I am with a single box containing three shirts, two jackets, a pair of jeans, and Dollar Store quality hygiene necessities.

They don't know. Neither Chuck or Bomb know of this. They don't know how I was raised or how I came to be the town grump. And they can never know. They'll look at me like I'm a fucking kicked puppy. The last thing I need is other people's pity, especially if it'll come from the only two people in my life that don't treat me like total shit. What I do need is to scrounge up a couple of hundred bucks and buy a couple of pieces of fucking furniture so that they won't suspect that I'm lying.

This is great. Just fucking great.

A few hours later, the three of us are seated in a brand new American Furniture Warehouse cafe on the outskirts of our campus. After strolling through the labyrinth of armchairs and couches, picking and prodding through the midst of merchandise, it feels good to park my ass on a seat that's price tag doesn't stab me in the back.

Bomb has ordered us lunch from a nearby cafeteria. It consists of corn dogs and shoelace french fries that I swear they scooped up from the bottom of a McDonald's trash can. But compared to the burnt piece of toast I had this morning, the half-cooked corn dog on a stick and stale fries are a hell of a lot better.

Chuck sits across from me, grinning from ear to ear and bouncing in his seat like an excitable toddler as he rapidly taps his short fingernails against the metal tabletop.

"Alright, spill it, Chuck. What did you do this time?" I ask blatantly, popping a ketchup coated fry into my mouth.

"Whaaaattt?" He drawls in faux shock, his voice a full octave higher. "What would make you think I did something? It's not like I'm going to surprise you guys with something I've been dying to tell you for weeks… or anything." The blonde man avoids eye contact as he slurps noisily from his water cup.

"So you _are_ surprising us with something." Bomb restates, brushing crumbs off of his shirt.

Chuck bites his bottom lip, hard, but his signature smile is ever-present. It makes me uneasy, unnecessarily uneasy.

"Okay, fine!" He blurts out. "Yes! I _was _going to surprise you guys with the most amazing news ever until a certain _someone_ spoiled it." He directs a stern look at me.

"Oh, yeah. Like it's my fault you couldn't keep your little 'surprise' a secret." I retort furiously.

"Anyway," Chuck continues. "there's a special someone joining us today and she is very excited to meet you guys for the first time and I need you two to be on your best-"

"Wait, wait!" I cut him off mid-sentence. "Did you just say _she_?"

"_She_ is my sister and a really smart one at that." Chuck resumes his rambling. "I mean, we all just thought she was weird, you know? But before I knew it, she skipped four grades, won an Engineer of the Year Award, and got a scholarship at Avian Academy."

Oh, great. She's an egghead.

"You are absolutely gonna love her. But don't love her too much. That's my sister, Red." Chuck leans over the table, stabbing a finger into my chest, green eyes glowing lividly in their sockets. "Or I'll crush every bone in your body!" He growls through his teeth.

Holy motherfucking shit!

I gulp at his intensity, eyes wide at the sudden change in Chuck's demeanor. Said man is just about to continue when something behind me grabs his attention. His face, which is contorted into a sort of snarl, lights up like a Christmas tree and he shoots to his feet, knocking down his chair to the floor. "I'll be right back!"

Before I can regain my composure, he disappears in a flash of yellow, dashing between coffee tables and television sets across the store. I take a deep breath before I rest my elbow on the table, hand cupping my cheek.

"So, what do you think she's like?" Bomb asks after a moment, not at all unfazed by Chuck's harsh words and sudden vanishment.

"H-How would I know?" I stutter, trying not to seem at all terrified by the blonde man's threat.

"Do you think she's nice?"

"I don't know, Bomb!" I nearly yell a little more aggravated than need be.

Seriously, why is he asking me all of these questions when I just found out that Chuck even had a sister? Can't he just be quiet for once in his damn life?!

…

Goddammit! I am such a fucking asshole. I should've known that Bomb of all people would be the one to ask the more obvious inquiries now that Chuck is gone. Hell! He's the kind of person to walk up to the surly asshat of a man on the bus and ask for directions like the sweet, soulful person he is.

And being the previously described being, Bomb brushes off my aggressive words without a second thought. He's used to my frustrated habits by now.

"I bet she's really nice, like, so nice that she'll bake cookies for us." The taller man exclaims blithely between bites of meat and bread, grinning as if he's eating pure sunshine and rainbows instead of the shitload of corndogs only half-cooked in an outdated microwave.

"I doubt it," I grumble as I sink into my chair, lazily reaching over to take a drink of my soda pop.

What if she's a brat? Like one of those prissy little daddy's girl who wants everyone to do her dirty work for her? Like those people on reality tv who travel to exotic islands for a nice getaway and blow off their family's fortunes at casinos and night clubs? I'm not naming any names but *cough*Kardasians*cough, cough*

Nah. She won't. Knowing Chuck and seeing as how he turned out now that he's an adult, I'm sure that she was treated and disciplined no less as a child. Besides, he wouldn't be this excited if she was a selfish prick.

Not even a second later, Chuck materializes before us with someone by his side. I don't look up until he speaks.

"Guys, this is Silver." Chuck proclaims, wrapping an arm around the lady.

I glance up as I sip on my beverage through the plastic straw and automatically choke on the Pepsi halfway down my throat.

HOLY SHIT!

Silvery hair, giant turquoise eyes, thin frame; all of the qualities of the one woman I never wanted to see again.

I cough and splutter, tendrils of fizzing carbonation drizzling from my burning nostrils and hacking mouth. Through watering eyes, I can see that Bomb is at my aid almost immediately, fetching me napkins and hurriedly trying to clean up the mess of regurgitated soda.

"You?" I wheeze out through strangled breaths mixed with soda residue clogging my windpipe. With one hand I cover my mouth from spewing anymore partially consumed Pepsi and with the other I blindly grope around the drenched table and grab what I hope is a water cup. I bring it to my lips and gulp down (thankfully) cold water, chugging and chugging until I'm sure the soda pop is completely washed down.

Once every drop slips down the hatch, I choppily sigh, desperately trying not to swallow my own tongue. I use a pile of paper napkins to wipe at my mouth and eyes. I straighten up, only half pretending I hadn't nearly fucking died there for a second.

"You?" She returns, the realization that I'm the asshole from her latest speed date hitting her just as hard as it did me.

I just wish she was in the middle of drinking something too so that she could embarrass herself in front of the dozens of customers watching me hurl mouthfuls of soda.

"You," I state, eyebrows furrowing into a scowl at the memory of that night back on the island. How I wish someone would just swing a mallet to the back of my head so that I could forget ever arriving at the outdoor restaurant.

"Wait. You know this guy?" Silver asks, turning to Chuck.

"Yeah! This is one of my best buddies, Red. And that's Bomb. These are the guys."

"Hi. We're the guys." Bomb greets sunnily as he mops up the brown liquid sprayed on the table. I reach for a separate pile of clean, white tissues and half-heartedly help him, my attention fully locked on our new arrival.

"As I was saying, this is Silver, the greatest kid sister in the world." Chuck introduces once again.

"I'm not exactly a kid anymore, Chuck." The lady, Silver, quips at her brother.

"Oh, you'll always be my kid sister!" He grasps her around the neck into the crook of his arm and playfully rubs his knuckles over her scalp. She expertly maneuvers out of his hold and pops up free, her feathery bangs bouncing in silvery, ruffled strands.

"Hey, guys." She waves cutely.

"And…" Chuck drags for an oh-so dramatic effect. "... she's moving in with us!"

Wait! What?!

Holy motherfuck… this can't be happening! Not her. Not her not her not her. Why of all people did it have to be her?!

This Silver character who-who just so happens to be an outspoken, _definitely NOT _pretty girl who also just so happens to be a psychic because she can see right through my very fucking soul! Moving in with us?! LIVING WITH US?!

That house, that ancient three-story fraternity house that I had fought tooth and nail for over three months was only and _only _meant for the three of us. Bomb, Chuck, and me. JUST THE THREE OF US! And now Chuck's sister shows up out of the blue claiming she's our new roommate? Without any consultation?!

Over my goddamn body!

The nerve. The fucking nerve they have.

"You know, I don't think this is gonna work," I say after finding my voice. Hearing myself, I sound much calmer than I expect. "It's just that I'm not sure you're gonna be compatible with the team."

Did you see that? Did you just see that? I just referred back to what Silver had said back at the speed dating event, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm sure that Bomb and Chuck won't understand it, but she sure will. And it brings me great satisfaction to see her face fall when she realizes it.

Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?

"Oh, come on, Red." Chuck intervenes. "What's so wrong with her staying with us?"

What's so wrong? WHAT'S SO FUCKING WRONG?!

Everything! Every little fucking thing is wrong with it!

I fumble for the right words to say so that I don't give myself away at the fact that I'm uncomfortable that there will be a _woman _living in the same house as three _men_ and that said woman just so happens to be the one person who ended the speed date all those weeks ago and made me all the more self-conscious of my lonely social life. _And _that she's not only a gifted student but a pretty, smart, and apparently friendly individual all topped with a bright, red cherry.

Before I can answer, Chuck interjects once again. "All of those in favor of letting Silver live with us, raise your hand."

Simultaneously; Silver, Chuck, and Bomb lift their arms above their heads. I'm the only one who doesn't.

"Then it's settled. She's moving in with us!"Chuck announces, wrapping an arm around his sister joyfully. Silver smirks at me smugly in her brother's embrace and the urge to stick my tongue out at her has never been stronger.

"Wait! That's not fair!" I exclaim.

"Too late." Chuck states. "She's staying. And if you don't like it, then you can suck it." He leans forward once again, booping my nose playfully. I'm tempted to growl in his face and snap my teeth on his outstretched finger, but of-so reluctantly restrain myself. Trust me, it's not easy to control your anger when a man touches your nose cutely in public like that, especially in front of the girl who makes my blood boil under my skin.

"Now let's get back to shopping!" Chuck squeals. "There was this drawer that caught my eye and I thought it would look perfect in the…" His words drift off as he walks away. Silver and Bomb follow after him, joining in the conversation.

I'm left in my chair, alone and fuming. I groan under breath and slam my head onto the table, my ears ringing.

Oh my fucking god! This can't be happening. This _can not _be happening!

Ever so reluctantly, I lift up my head, dried Pepsi sticking to my brow. I comb my fingers through my scalp, tempted to tear out a few clumps of red hair straight out of my skull but rule it out. I stand to my feet and scoop up the mess of soiled napkins and soda drenched french fries and toss them in the trash before going after the trio, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket dejectedly.

What did I do to deserve this?

**Author's Note: Sooooooo. What do you guys think? I know this is sorta like the other Angry Bird Human au story "And They Were Roommates" (you guys should totally check it out it's really good.) I'm really sorry if it looks like that. I was just hoping to see what I could make of doing a human au of how Red and Silver get together. If you like this, be sure to follow and favorite as well as critique. Chapter 2 will follow soon.**


	2. Moving In

Silver moves in today. Silver moves in today and I'm not sure I can keep my fucking act together before exploding into a raging bastard.

For the past two weeks, I've been dreading this day. Two weeks of absolute angst has plagued me into near sickness. I can't eat, can't sleep, and it's all because her. Every day, I've stared at my calendar in despair as the row of red x's got closer to the square marked 14 in italics. August 14, the day Silver would be coming here as an official roommate of this household.

Ever since Chuck had announced her new living arrangements in the furniture store, I've been none too pleased about it all. And I've been so unpleased that I made it clear as fucking day every chance I got to like the ass that I am. Glaring at my two friends from across the room, ignoring their calls for help with carrying leftover luggage, even so far as to quit talking to them in all.

Yeah, I'm being an asshole, but it's not like they don't deserve it, right?

And ignoring Bomb and Chuck for three days straight is one thing, but locking myself in my room for 12 hours straight is another.

I mean, come on! Wouldn't you block out the rest of the world if a woman who you may or may not think is attractive—if not beautiful, even—will be sleeping just down the fucking hall from you? If you couldn't stop picturing her stupid smile curving ever so sweetly and hearing her stupid voice ringing inside your head like that of a siren's? That you have no means of knowing how to handle feelings you've never felt, feelings for someone so out of your league and you being so inexperienced with expressing said feelings to that girl you've been thinking of nonstop? Not that I've considered it, or anything.

Well, maybe…

Argh, it's… it's… whatever! Forget it!

Fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuccckkkk! Oh my fucking god, this is a nightmare.

With this inner turmoil taking place, I sat alone in the dark doing everything in my power to come up with ways to not fuck things up when she got here. No matter how hard Chuck and Bomb pounded on my door or pleaded for me to come out, I refused to take a single step out of my room. For hours I laid in the darkness, listening to the AC unit's droning hum as it blasted over my pajama don body in its frigid chilliness.

At some point, I came to a conclusion—which had nothing to do with the fact that I'd been secluded to the confines behind my locked door and was in desperate need of a bathroom break. It was a plan, a simple, most likely problematic plan that will either end in victory or in disaster, hopefully the former.

When Silver gets here, I will not say a word. I will not talk, walk, or even breathe in her direction. I will not engage her for any reason necessary unless it is a do-or-die situation. That I will not, repeat, WILL NOT notice her. She is simply there, living, breathing, existing, nothing more to me than a speck of dust.

It's a good plan. A solid plan. A plan that can either go down in flames or wash over like water over stone.

…

Goddamnit! This is a terrible plan. But do I have any better ideas? No. No, I do not. Now I can only hope that I can convince myself of this by the time she gets here.

At the crack of dawn, she drives a rundown white Volkswagen Jetta into the driveway. Chuck and Bomb nearly barrel down the door as they rush outside to greet her. I watch them from the kitchen window as I spoon my bowl of dry, flavorless oatmeal. Bomb had forgotten to go grocery shopping the other day, so we had nothing to spice up our food. Outside, the three teenagers run around the tiny car like frenzied balls of giggling energy as they start to carry her stuff inside. I leave my half-eaten breakfast in the sink and slam my bedroom door shut behind me, waiting for them to be done.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. I shouldn't have to cower behind a locked door to hide. I shouldn't have to hide from anyone, not even a girl who has been in my thoughts for the past few weeks. I shouldn't have to be so angry with my friend's surprise of letting his sister stay with us. I really shouldn't be angry at all, but I am. I am and I am because it's… she's… she's _here_! She's here, walking and talking in my house, parading around as if I wasn't on the brink of a fucking meltdown. It's much easier to tolerate her when she isn't down the hall or skipping past my door where each time I hear her name my heart skips a beat, my spine prickles with sweat, and I can only hope she won't get any closer to my bedroom.

Now, believe me, I'm trying my damndest to block out their shouts, their thundering footsteps as they clamber up and down the stairs, their bouts of laughter whenever one of them makes a cheesy, 2nd grade level joke. I do everything in my fucking power to ignore Silver's calls from outside, her firm yet gentle knocks on my door, her light footfalls, everything. Each time, I swear, I nearly have a heart attack.

Bomb and Chuck must know this. They have to, or at least somewhat. It's not like I've been doing anything to hide my anxiety of her arrival, if anything I've done just the opposite. And you'd think that by knowing this they would at least leave me alone to recollect myself from falling to pieces if I ever came face to face with the one girl who makes me want to hack a hole into a wall with an axe and run. Yet, just my luck, they're not so nice as to let me off the hook that easy. And as they always do, Bomb and Chuck manage to drag me out of the security of my room.

So it wasn't enough that I had been ruled out of letting a _woman_ live with a houseful of boys, but now I have to heft her belongings up and down the stairs as punishment?!

Well, ain't this just a great, goddamn day.

It takes us a full three hours to get everything out of the trunk and backseat of her car, including the delivery truck of her newly purchased sets of furniture. By the time we drop off the last desk in her room, I've sweated through my shirt. Rivulets of sticky sweat tickling my temples, the back of my neck, my nose. My cheeks burn from exertion and I'm sure that an unpleasant stench is already emanating from me. Before I can even make eye contact with Silver for the first time today, I speed off to the shower and take my sweet time in washing off the morning's workout.

As the rain of steaming water pelts my back, I close my eyes and take a long drag of breath through my nose. I can still smell it. Even in the shower, yards away from her with barriers and doors to block it, I can still smell it. Her scent, her perfume, her very essence. I can smell it from all of the things I had carried today. From her pink and purple ombré bedside lamp, her collection of colored pens and markers, and especially her clothes. Oh god, her clothes were the worst. They emitted the most fragrance. Her neatly folded t-shirts and sweaters, her white-washed faded jeans, her fuzzy pajama pants, all smelling of something strangely familiar, sweet, and pungent. It's stuck in my nostrils, lingering in my nose canal. I lean my forehead against the tile wall as I think about where I know of it.

That's it! That's it!!!

I recognize it! I recognize it so fast and so hard I drop the shampoo bottle on my toe and I have to bite my tongue not to scream in pain.

Rosewater. She smells of rosewater.

Bomb bellows through the bathroom door that dinner's ready and I hastily rush to scrub out the soap in my hair. Reluctantly stepping out of the bathtub and into the frigid cold of the room, I dry myself off and wipe at the fogged-up mirror. Looking back at me is a sight I've seen way too many times and in no way satisfied at seeing again. A teenage boy with a shocking head of red hair tangled into a wet rat's nest atop of his head, his amber eyes lined with heavy, dark bags look back at me in a tired manner as if he'd gone many nights without rest. Giant clusters of brown freckles dot his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, and nearly everywhere else on his pale body. I sigh, not exactly happy with what I see but accustomed to it so much that I no longer fret about my appearance. Like the old saying goes, "It is what it is."

Now sitting at the dinner table with sopping wet hair and the same hoodie I had worn to mine and Silver's speed date, I lazily spoon scoops of canned tomato soup and nibble on the crust of my half burnt grilled cheese sandwich. The others quietly chew on their food, all of them giving wary looks in my direction. Silver sits across from me as the two teenage boys eat at my sides, their gazes boring down on me.

Could they be anymore fucking obvious?

Well, it's not like they're subtle or anything.

I sip my now cold soup with a loud slurp, droplets of tomato washing over my tongue with little flavor. I can see the others flinch out of my peripherals. My eyes remain where they are, steadfast on the scraped innards of my bowl, the faux porcelain scratched from one too many harsh blows from metal silverware. The urge to look up and see Silver face to face has never been so tempting in all my life.

Don't you do it! Don't you fucking do it, you little shit! You've gone this long without looking at her, you can go longer.

I groan under my breath, biting down on the hard crust with a spray of crumbs emitting from my teeth.

Don't do it don't do it don't fucking do it!

You can do this. For once in your goddamn life, don't screw this up!

"So I, um…" I speak up.

What the hell are you doing?!

Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut uppppppppp!

"I hear you're some kind of engineering wizard or whatever." I voice to Silver, keeping my focus on the lip of my paper plate.

Oh… fuck it!

I look at her. For the first time in weeks, I look at her. There she is, a vision, her thin, petal pink lips slightly apart, turquoise eyes wide in surprise, perfectly waxed eyebrows raised high on her brow. The others' expressions match her own almost perfectly.

What the fuck, man?! What the actual, literal fuck was that?!

Oh god! Oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god! Bad idea, very bad idea.

"Oh," she ventures in uncertainty.

Bad idea! Bad idea! Why, oh god, why did I have to say something?! I did I have to open my fucking mouth and say something to her? Son of a bitch! What the hell is wrong with me?!

Silver, looking stunned, almost instantly regains her assured composure and I have to blink hard in case it was just a trick of my eyes. She's now smiling, sitting up straight; determined. Can't say I'm in any sort of similar state.

"I mean, I don't like to brag, but…" with a loud pop of her mouth, she produces a pristine yellow piece of paper signed in fancy cursive with a gold emblem proudly stamped in the corner. "Wait. Who's that?" She says rhetorically in an all too sarcastic manner, her eyes gleaming with playful mischief, pointing with a delicate finger at her name written in print. "And why is she all over these achievement awards?" And like unfolding a deck of cards, she reveals at least half a dozen or so of identical forms like she's unveiling a priceless shelf of trophies.

… and I regret opening my fucking mouth. You know, I regret a lot of things now.

"The kid's amazing, right?" Chuck comments, elbowing my shoulder. He seems more comfortable now that the tension in the air has thinned to nothing.

Yeah, and by amazing you mean she's a complete showboat, I think dryly to myself. Who the hell keeps fucking achievement awards stashed on hand?

"Not a kid anymore, Chuck." Silver says a little shortly.

"Toot toot!" Chuck suddenly exclaims, jumping out of his chair and pumping his arm in the air as if he were actually pulling the whistle of a train. "Tickle Train arriving at Sister Station!" He creeps around the table, wiggling his fingers playfully.

"Chuck, no!" Silver scrambles out of her seat, shuffling around the table to stay away from her brother. "I am a serious academic."

The blonde man rounds the table at lightning speed and before Silver can react, Chuck tackles the girl to the ground, both of them exploding into a writhing fit of laughter. Silver's forms, the forms she had handled with such gentleness and pride, flutter to the ground like confetti, the brother and sister rolling over them without a care.

"I am a serious…" Silver wheezes through giggles, kicking her legs up in the air as Chuck vigorously tickles her sides, nearly knocking the table over.

The scene below me, for some strange reason, seems a little… shit! What's the word… no not a word. A phrase… what is it what is it… oh, yeah! Out of place. Yeah, that's it! Out of place. Seeing two full grown siblings of the opposite sex having a tickle fight on the kitchen floor, laughing and wrestling and chortling, is a little out of place. Wouldn't you agree?

"Oh, look how cute this is." I retort above them, clearly stating how _not _cute it is. I look to Bomb, who seems to be enjoying the two's game, grinning from ear to ear, and see that I must be the only one to see it.

With a gruff, I take to my feet with a loud scrape of my wooden chair's legs against the floorboards and toss my plate in the trash and my bowl in the sink, my spoon clattering loudly in the bowels of the old fashioned steel sink. I then storm my way up the stairs, peeking out of the corner of my to see that the two are still going at it. I stomp all the way to the top of the third staircase and slam the door behind me when I enter my room. Unceremoniously, I plop down into my brand new desk and office chair, placing my head into my hands, my elbows resting on the cool surface of the sanded wood of my desk.

Said desk and chair were the cheapest set at the furniture store, and me being the cheapskate that I am, I was a sucker and bought it with no resilience. It's nothing fancy, just a simple, black wheelie chair alongside a long, wooden desk polished with a brown staining oil. Again, nothing fancy, but it's my very first piece of furniture I've ever owned. So I guess, to those who are sentimental, it may just be significant.

What was I thinking?! What was I thinking!

I… I broke. I fucking broke and I… I… Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh! This is bullshit!

After those 12 hours fighting with myself, devoting myself to ignoring her no matter what the cost, it all went to hell. It was a complete and utter disaster.

God-fucking-dammit!

It's okay. It's okay, it's okay. It was just a question. It meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'll just have to be more careful in the future. No talking, no looking, no anything. Ignore, ignore, fucking ignore and it'll be okay.

I take a deep breath and lift my head up, keeping my eyes close.

Yeah, that's what I'll do. I'll continue to ignore her, pretend she isn't there living and breathing and sleeping just yards away from me. I'll ignore her until I'm convinced she isn't there. That she isn't in my home, walking and talking by me, to me, at me. I will ignore her, and I will not give in, no matter.

I take another deep breath, this time to allow my chest to swell at my thoughts of perseverance, when I suddenly smell it.

There it is again. The scent, her scent, drifting to my senses. Traveling all the way from her bedroom, lingering from her clothes, her bedsheets, her hair and all the way to my nose, sending a shiver down my spine.

Rosewater. God! Why did she have to have that as her perfume?

I groan as I trudge to my bed and cloak myself with the thin sheets, burrowing my face into my pillow in a desperate yet ineffective attempt to block out the smell of her. Eventually, though, I find myself slowly drifting off, unknowingly taking in the rosewater fragrance by the lungful till my eyes slip shut.

This is going to be a really hard few weeks.

Author's note: Thank you all for your support and encouragement of the first chapter. It means the world to me that you guys like my story. And I also thank you guys for your patience, the past few weeks have been crazy. Anywho, like always, stay tuned for more chapters! I love you guys!


	3. The Wrath of the Hormones

To put it easily and to save ourselves some time, let's just say that the past few weeks have been total shit. May I remind you that once upon a time my dear ol' buddy Chuck decided to "invite" his sister to live with us and said sister just so happens to be the one woman who I've felt so… so… I don't know what! But what I do know is that she lives just across the hall from me and that the past dozen days or so have been literal hell.

College classes started just three days after Silver moved in. I've spent a majority of my time in my Human Arts and Architecture classes, and thankfully all of the Science departments where Silver attends her schooling is on the other side of the campus. So thankfully, I never have such bad luck to run into her during the day. And being a college student with bills to pay and people to feed, I had to get a job. And as of God-sent, a position for a delivery boy was needed at Bruno's Pizza (a hole in the wall where beach bums gather for their daily lunch) so I took it. That way, while Silver's doing whatever it is she does in the afternoon, I'm out riding my bike through the streets of the university from 5:00 pm to 11:00 pm.

Yet it's at night it's the hardest to ignore her. Whenever I'm not given any shifts and I'm stuck at home, I lock myself away in my room, either sketching landscapes and portraits or blueprints, doing my damndest not to think about the girl. I usually go on like this for hours, deafening music blasting through my earbuds as I scribble through sketchbooks and drawings of structures, hunched over my desk and lamp, fingers aching as I clutch my pencils and brushes. Sometimes I'll come out and eat with the others, but other times I dine over canvases and blueprints.

I often find peace when I'm like this: alone and isolated, cut off from the world and lost in the colorful swirls and strokes of my artwork as if transported to a different realm, enveloped in light and darkness, music drowning out anything and everything, cocooned in my little sanctuary.

Yep! Aren't I just living the dream?

As much as that sounds like some line I stole from a wholesome, sage old man describing something from his goringly detailed book, it's true. I really do enjoy doing this. It's calm, it's relaxing, and most importantly, it's something I can do without Silver ruining it.

Every day and night is a struggle for me to ignore her. It's as if she's literally trying to force me to interact with her; wriggling her way into my life like a parasite. She tries to sit next to me at the table, tries to intercept me on campus between classes, even checks up on me when I'm in my room. And I swear, she's visited Bruno's Pizza at least three times in the past week. Either she's messing with me or I'm seriously sick and I'm having hallucinations. It's a 50/50 situation, to be honest.

Like what the hell?! What's her deal? Why's she so obsessed with being in my life? Isn't ignoring someone like the universal translation for "go away"? Either she doesn't know this or she hasn't picked up on the memo. I'm just hoping that my futile attempts of blocking out her existence will eventually come to be realized and she'll leave me alone for the rest of my life.

It's a Friday night, and on most post weekends, I do what most college students do: I hide in the confines of my house and eat takeout while blasting music from my old headphones plugged in my ears. I've been cooped up in here for some time now, fingers sore and paint splattered from the three hours of hard work. My eyes sting from lack of sleep and blinking and the stool I'm sitting on does painful wonders to my ass. I drag the tips of the brush slowly, dark crimson streaks glistening on the rough surface of the canvas, before pulling back to view my assignment completely. The painting features a black lake shrouded by black trees in a black forest under a black sky, shined down upon by a blood red moon.

The assignment was to paint something haunting. I'm pretty sure I nailed it. Especially once I add the glowing red eyes in the shadows.

A smile snakes up my mouth at my creation before puckering into a pout. I pinch my chin between my forefinger and my thumb, thinking about the way the reflection of the moon in the water looks and the highlighting of the leaves in the groves of the forestry.

They say that you're your own worst critic. It's been said hundreds of times amongst artists, and there's no way in hell I'm any different. I'm gonna skip the boring details of just how absolutely terrible the painting is due to you probably already knowing what it's like to be a not-so-good-yet-good-enough-even-though-you-suck artist.

I sigh, rubbing at my watering eyes when a sudden _bang_ sends me jumping into the air with me toppling onto my easel. I leap out of my stool and stagger forwards, catching onto the steel frame of the canvas's perch before I can fall, face slammed into the sticky mesh of colors of my painting, before leaping to my feet where my chair clatters to the floor, my paintbrush flying across the room. I turn to the door, heart hammering and eyes wide, to see Bomb standing there, grinning from ear to ear, his large figure nearly as big as the doorframe. The door still rattles from Bomb's busting in.

"Bomb!" I exclaim, cheeks burning with anger and shock. I pull out the earbud blasting some Metallica song out from my ear, the other one dangling from the cord. "What the fuck was that for?!"

"You gotta come downstairs!" He says gleefully, completely unfazed by the fact that I nearly crashed into and ruined my assignment I've been working on for an entire week.

"Why?"

"Come on!" He ushers as he starts to shuffle towards the stairs.

"What is it?" I yell, aggravation growing with every second.

"Come down and see for yourself." He says.

Oh yippee! It's a surprise.

Before I can ask again, he's already thundering down the stairs.

What the- ugh! I swear, this guy's going to be the death of me.

I groan loudly before slamming the wooden frame of my project back where it was, shoving my hands into my overalls' pockets and heading out the door, stomping down the stairs like an angry little toddler.

What could be so important that it was worth nearly giving me a heart attack for? Not to mention having me flunk a scoop assignment?

I reach the bottom of the stairs with a slam of my heels, the floorboards rattling under my socks. The old fashioned lights screwed to the walls of the stairwell vibrate at the motion, their amber tint flickering in their musty light bulbs.

"Okay Bomb, what is it you dragged me down here for-" I say just as I round the balcony and stop dead in my tracks. In front of me are at least a dozen people clustered at my front door. Some wear cobalt blue tracksuits with the University's mascot proudly stitched onto their chests. And others are girls in denim shorts and tank tops, their suntanned hair pulled up into messy buns. They look at me as if I'd shown up unexpectedly at their own houses, like an uninvited intruder. Bomb is among them, speaking to a girl with an orange and yellow striped beanie crowning her brow, and looks at me with a goofy grin on his face.

"What the hell is going on here?" I ask aloud, motioning to the crowd in front of me.

"Hey, Red!" Chuck greets all too delightedly as he zooms up to my side. He smiles widely, wider than by any means of comfort, and gazes at me with giant green saucers.

Oh, god! What did he do?

"What did you do?"

"What do you mean?" The blonde man asks innocently in a not so innocent way. "We're just having a little… get together."

"No." I retort, brows furrowing at the realization of what he really means. "What you're having is a party, which I specifically said was a no go in this household."

"It's not a party, Red!" Chuck returns heatedly. "It's a get together!"

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"I'll tell you 'how so'. First, I only invited a few of my buddies from the track team and cheer squad, definitely not a third of the college students like all parties have. And second, we'll only be doing some simple, safe, and unprovocative games and activities. None of those crazy shenanigans people do at wild ravers. Come on, man! Aren't I a responsible adult?" He grins even wider, the corners of his mouth stretching painfully up his cheeks.

You, sir, sit on a throne of lies.

"Sure, Chuck." I say, not at all convinced.

Is this really what Bomb dragged me down here for? To proclaim the presence of Chuck's track team and a bunch of cheerleaders waltzing up our doorstep and making sure I knew that the two of them had broken a regulation I had made very clear when we'd moved in?

God! Can this night get any worse?

You know what? Fuck it! Let them have their so-called get together. Let them do whatever the hell they want, as long as I can scamper back up into my room and relish in sweet, sweet isolation.

"You know what, whatever. You guys can have your 'get together'." I flex my fingers with air quotes as I inch towards the staircase. "And while you're doing those little unprovocative activities you claim to do as a responsible adult, I'll be upstairs and away from all of this."

"You're not staying?" Bomb asks as he comes up to the two of us.

"Guys! You know I have a lot to finish up before Friday-"

"Which is exactly why you should hang out with us down here. To get away from all those assignments and work." Chuck interrupts. "Isn't it healthy for people to relax before big projects or something?"

Okay. You may be thinking to yourselves, "Oh, come on, Red! Quit being an ass and live a little. Hang out with your friends that like you for some unexplainable reason despite your bitchass attitude! Have some fun!" But… yeah, no. I think I'll pass.

Okay, sure. Chuck and Bomb could leave me alone with my schoolwork all night while they live it up with their friends. They could ignore me for the rest of the semester, pretend I don't exist, and treat me like total shit. They have every right to with the way I've been acting towards them. Yet they both stay. They stay by my side, joined at the hip, supporting me and my choices no matter how much of a dickwad I can be. I honestly don't understand why they've stuck with me all this time, but just because they're more friendly to me than others doesn't mean that I'm still gonna "party" with them.

"No, guys!" I bark. "Thanks, but I'm good. I think I'll be just fine missing out on your party."

"Get together!" Chucks remarks.

"You guys are having a party? Sweet!" A voice behind me sounds off loudly.

I would've grinned smugly at Chuck at the fact that I wasn't the only one who saw what this whole get together business really was if it wasn't for who had said it. Silver clambers down the stairs with skip in her step, breezing past me to stand with her brother, a blur of silver and purple. I don't look at her. I press my lips together into a tight, thin line, the muscles in my shoulders bunched like coiled wire, my attention screwed onto the space above the sister's head.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…

"It's actually a get together, Silver." Chuck stresses. "And Mr. Grumpy Butt here refuses to join us."

My hands clench into tight fists at my sides, so hard and for so long that my nails threaten to break the skin of my palm.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…

"Seriously? Come on, Red. Hang out with us for once. Please?" Says Silver.

Out of my peripherals, I can see her bat her long, dark eyelashes at me. My anger slowly dissolves into panic at Silver saying my name. I glance down to remark back that they'd have to drag me and nail me to the wall if they wanted me to stay, but then I freeze. My eyes meet Silver's, and Silver's meet mine, and for a moment I'm sure the world stops turning (God! How corny does that sound?) Silver smiles softly, her thin, petal pink lips curled on her bronzed cheeks, her gaze glinting turquoise and kindly. She pulls her braid forward and twirls the end of it in her fingers, her head turned to the side. Her silver hair grazes over the smooth curve of her long neck and-

Don't do that! Don't you fucking dare! Don't give me those goddamn, dopey Bambi eyes! Don't look at me like that! Don't fucking look at me like that!

A thought in my head slithers its way into focus and has me reeling: what would it feel like if I were to touch it? TWhat would it feel like to brush my hand over the silky, sun-tanned hide of her nape, to tangle my fingers into her scalp? What would it feel like if I pressed my lips against the skin of her throat? Would I feel the warmth of her body first or her intoxicating scent-

FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK!

Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it! Can't think like that can't think like that! Don't think like that, dammit!

It's… It's not my fault! It's not my fault! It's not my fault I can't stop staring at her impossibly clear, beautiful neck! It's not my fault I can't stop thinking about fucking kissing her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders, and so much more… er, it's… It's not my fault!

It's… it's… it's hormones! That's it! It's my raging, teenage hormones acting up that's making me this way! That's gotta be it. Definitely it. Has to be it!

My internal meltdown has kept me quiet this whole time and the others take my silence for an answer (a yes, to be exact) and grab me by the arms and playfully tug me towards the living room, grinning like idiots. As much as I want to dig my heels into the floorboards and race upstairs and burrow under my bed covers for the rest of my life, I can't find the strength to resist. I'm already fighting the battle of ignoring Silver's existence (and failing horribly at it), leaving me too tired and too worn to fight Chuck and Bomb's. I let them pull me along to sit on the couch, the horde of strangers following in after me, swarming the small space. Chuck and Bomb dash to them, giggling with glee at the circumstances while I fight the urge to run. Silver stays beside me, hovering over me.

"Hey!" She calls above me.

I force myself to look up at her, doing my damndest to not stare into those impossibly green eyes of hers and to push down the intrusive thoughts that are driving me insane.

"You have a little something on your face." She points at her cheek as indication before skipping away, her long braids bouncing against her back.

Hastily, I swipe at my face and my fingers come away smeared with a red and black substance.

Son of a bitch! I've been walking around talking back and forth with a good number of the academy's track/cheer team looking like a fucking idiot! Great. Just fucking great.

I slump into the couch cushion with a grumble, wiping my hand onto the pant leg of my overalls as Silver walks away, striking a conversation with another girl across the room.

Thanks, guys. Thank you for bringing me down here looking like one of Picasso's paintings come to life and sit around watching you guys break the rules in front of me. Yeah, thanks a lot.

—

The next few hours or so are torture. Those unprovocative, mature activities Chuck had mentioned earlier turned out to be anything but. The group of athletes presently infesting my house have all taken part in Beer Pong, Spin the Bottle, and Seven Minutes in Heaven. All of which are horrid and all of which I have excluded myself from. Although they may look fun and playful, especially with the lot of them laughing loudly and smiling more and more with every swig from their red solo cups and every sloppy, drunken kiss they share with each other, all I see are a bunch of kids trying to play Grown Up.

I don't mean to sound all wise or parent-like, but seriously? This is middle school stuff they're doing. They couldn't have come up with anything better or a tad bit more inventive? Not that I would even play it if they did, though. It's not like I want to join in on their galavanting and have a little fun. It's not like I'd ever be invited into their little posse and fit in with them. It's not like they even want me here. And I don't want to be. I don't want to be here, either. I don't want anything to do with these people.

At least that's what I tell myself.

What little experience I have with social interaction in these situations is putting my patience to the test as I'm being pushed and shoved throughout the house, sandwiched between meatheads and perky cheerleaders who smell of sweat, perfume, and cheap beer.

As we all lounge about the living area, I fume in my spot on the couch, angrily perched between two track athletes who can't stop laughing for the life of them.

"Okay okay okay." Chuck hollers a little too loudly. He's seated in an armchair with a leg thrown over one of the arms. "I've got an idea for a game."

Oh great! What is it now? Strip Poker?

Better not have anything to do with alcohol anymore. I swear, if any of them vomit on my floor I will see to it they clean it themselves! Drunk or not, I'll force the mop into their hands!

"How about we play hide and seek! Buuuuuuttttt….." He draws oh-so dramatically. I can't help eye rolling at him. "... with a twist! Everyone has to down a single cup of beer and then hide!"

The others chime together in agreement, some leaning against the walls for support and others casually sprawled across the furniture, all of them flushed red and dopey eyed. Some are even whooping and hollering as if it's the best idea they've ever heard.

It's the worst idea I've ever heard.

As if they need anymore of the supposed Liquid Courage!

"Chuck, no! They can't keep-" I stop myself mid sentence when two of the boys drag in an entire new keg of beer from the dining room, courtesy of the track team. The others cheer loudly at the sight and make a beeline for the barrel, red cups in hand. I grumble to myself, arms firmly crossed over my chest as I seethe with unshed frustration.

Chuck zooms up in front of me, his cheeks a merry shade of red and the pupils of his eyes the size of marbles. "Oh, come on, buddy. Have a little fun!" He inquires, leaning in so close I can smell the horrid stench of the liquor plaguing his tongue.

I scoff in return, pushing him away by his shoulder. "You and I have very different definitions of 'fun'."

"Ah, leave him alone, Chuck. The stick-in-the-mud ain't gonna budge." A man across the room hollers.

Chuck and I turn to him simultaneously and see that the comment was said by a teenager with slick black hair and broad shoulders leaning against the stairway banister, a full cup of beer lazily clutched in his hand.

Yeah, sure. Leave it to Big Mouth over there to shine a spotlight on _moi._ As if I wasn't trying to hide in plain sight for the past two hours.

Pssh! Like I even care what he says. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hur-

"Besides, it's not like the shortstack can take it." The man says, swishing the fluid as if he were drinking red wine.

And just like that, I snap. Like a tight rope suspended over a burning candle wick, the flames licking the scorching fibers until _thwack! _

"The. Fucking. WHAT?!" I screech suddenly, shooting to my feet, ears insanely hot, fists curled at my sides.

The room falls silent in an instant. I can literally feel every eyeball in the room on me, watching with drunken amusement or anticipation of what I'm going to do next. Will I charge at him like a maniac rhino and start a brawl? Or will I run away like a sniveling coward? Who the fuck knows?!

To hell what they think! I'm going to give that son of a bitch a piece of my goddamn mind!

I stride towards the jock with thundering footfalls, never breaking eye contact with the hazel-eyed bastard, glaring at him through a film of angry, red fog clouding my vision. I walk and walk till my forehead grazes the unshaven hairs of his chin. He gazes down at me, a smirk crossing his thin mouth.

Let's just see how funny you think you are, you little shit!

Without looking or speaking, I snatch the beer out of his hand, bring the lid of the plastic to my lips and gulp down every last drop of grotesque alcohol till my head is thrown back and the liquid is drained. Wiping the drizzle of beer from my jaw, I return eye contact with the track athlete and see that he is, indeed, more than surprised at my reaction; eyes widened and all slack-jawed. It's so fucking hilarious I can't help but grin victoriously.

"Count me in." I drawl, shoving the empty solo cup back into his open hand forcefully. I walk away like a strutting peacock knowing full well that what I just did is gonna rear its ugly head back and bite me in the ass.

—

Ten minutes later, I'm running through the house trying to find a good hiding place.

You'd think living in my own house for so long would allow me to know special nooks and crannies the newcomers haven't discovered yet. But nope! I've only had time to venture into the living room, kitchen, and my bedroom, leaving me as ignorant as everyone else.

Finally, I resolve to go to my room where I can think of somewhere to hide without threatening my whereabouts. Once there, I try to sift through some options.

Under my bed? Nah, too obvious. Behind the door? What about…

And then I see it, half veiled by one of my unfinished paintings is the slotted metal of a vent. And although I didn't notice it before, I notice how only one screw is left to hold it up.

I wonder if…

Quickly kneeling before it while shoving the black and blue canvas across the expanse of my floor with a clatter, I lift up the heavy, metal square with a creak of its hinge, the chipped white paint along the edges digging into the flesh of my fingers. I rest it against the wall, where it's propped upright yet still screwed in loosely. The vent itself is dim and wide with cool air drifting over my face, rustling a patch of red locks atop my head.

Damn! This sucker is huge. _I_ could even fit in it-

Wait! This vent is big enough to hold a person. A person looking for a good hiding spot with little time to spare. A person who's desperate to prove some snobby track star wrong about some stupid party game. A person who's willing to do it anyway if only to savour his pride.

I smirk to myself as I shove my torso into the hole, wriggling my way through the jagged edges of the carved out material till my socks are sliding over the steel interior. Thankfully, it's big enough for me to curl in on myself to turn around completely and swivel the ventilation hatch back on so it looks like it hasn't even moved, which I do hurriedly as heavy footfalls ascend the stairs.

Hah! Try and find me now, sucker!

Revolving my body back around to face the labyrinth of the ventilation system, I decide to dive deeper into the darkness to make myself near impossible to find. I crawl on my elbows and knees for a while, gliding over smooth panels of steel for a solid five minutes until I'm sure I'm in the heart of the house, hidden away like a mouse in the walls, it's only means of entering and exiting being a small hole in the baseboards. I look back to see that the vent I came from is a good couple dozen feet away, a small speck in the horizon. More ventilation grills line the walls at my sides, beaming with altering light. They're the only sources of guidance for me in the maze.

I'm lucky this tunnel is so big and so long, and also so strong if it's able to manage my weight without so much as a groan of its boards. A house this big requires a good air conditioning unit to fill the whole structure with cool air easily and efficiently, thus meaning it requires a larger model of AC, larger than the norm.

How do I know that, you might ask. Let's just say that's just one of the many great things you learn in Architecture classes.

I'm rounding a corner that leads to the left when-

_SLAM! _

Something hard collides with my head and I reel back, my hand clutching my forehead that throbs insistently.

"OW! What the fuck was that- " I scream out only to stop when I look up. Crouched before me in the shadows in all her wonder is none other than Chuck's sister, Silver, also holding her head, her facial features screwed in pain.

Jesus Christ! When will it end?

"What… What the hell are you doing in here?" I demand after steeling myself at her sudden presence. It's not every day you ram your noggin into the girl of your drea- er, I mean, the girl you hate.

"Shhh!" She hisses, pressing a slim finger to my lips to shut me up and I have to literally stop blinking in order for me to grasp the fact that she's touching me, my eyebrows jumping to my scalp.

She's touching me! She's fucking touching me! And she's not just touching anything: she's touching my mouth! My fucking mouth!

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god…

"I'm trying to hide." She whispers harshly, her hand falling away. "But thanks to you, we might just be the first ones caught. So shut up!"

Calm down! Calm down. Just breathe. Just breathe and talk like a normal person, for Christ's sake!

I scoff to release some of the tension building up in my throat. "Please! As if they'll find us." I say quietly, allowing an air of confidence to enrapture me, hoping it'll sway the panic rising within me. If anyone asks, I'll blame it on the beer. "This is the best spot in the joint. They'll never find us."

"I wouldn't count on that if you talked any louder. Then they'd find us for sure." She says, her brows furrowing in a frustrated manner.

A spike of anger rushes through me and I'm tempted to yell.

"Hey! It's not my fault someone bulldozed their head into mine." I spit out.

"Well, it's not like I knew you'd be in here." She returns just as fiery, her hot breath basking my chin. "And if anything, you're just as much to blame for that as I am."

I grumble exasperatedly, hunching my shoulders in defeat. Peeking up through my eyelashes after a moment, I watch as Silver surveys the small void we're in, her gaze cold and calculating. Light filters from a nearby grate, peering through the thin bars of metal in slots of yellow. They shine on the girl before me, glimmering in her turquoise eyes, pronouncing her smooth, dark skin emblazoned on her round cheeks, glinting in her silvery hair-

Dammit dammit dammit! Stop thinking like that!

"Hey, uh, Red?" Silver says, grabbing my attention. "You know where we are, right?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you know how to get back to wherever you came from?"

"Yeah. Why?" I ask with a shrug.

Silver bows her head, latching her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes downcasting to her clasped hands.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say she looked embarrassed. And goddammit! Why is she so fucking cute when she does that?!

"I may have, kinda gotten a little lost." She mumbles and it takes everything in my being to not snort out a laugh.

"You? Lost? Wow! And Chuck says you're the smart one." I remark snarkily, earning me a swat to the arm.

"Brains has nothing to do with this!" She bites back angrily.

"Uh-huh, sure." I murmur as I turn myself around back the way I came. Better hustle if I still want to retrace my steps without ending up as clueless as Silver, as funny as it is. "Just follow me and try not to bang your head on anything else, sweetheart." I call over my shoulder nonchalantly, still staying quiet while trying out some form of teasing.

It only occurs to me when I'm creeping on my belly through the metal tunnel that within the past few weeks of complete isolation and dignified obedience, I broke my own vow of ignoring Silver and her presence in a matter of 20 seconds.

What the hell is wrong with me?! I go days without any interaction with her at all successfully and the moment we end up alone together in some godforsaken air vent, I lose it and actually talk to her like she's an actual person and not a daily obstacle I have to hurdle. Damn you raging hormones!

I'm pulled out of my thoughts of mentally kicking my own ass when Silver speaks up after a few minutes of silence, silence meaning scrapes and shuffles of cloth and mass grating along ancient steel.

"You know, I was thinking," she starts, "if this were a team game, you know like partners and that kind of stuff, I think you and I would win easily."

Wait! What? Me and her? Together? As a team? Winning? Me and her?!

That's as possible as me being emotionally and mentally stable, which we all know is a lost cause. Especially the me and her part. I mean, that's… she's… me… together? That's, uh… um… the two of us, together?!

"H-How do you mean?" I inquire, clearly curious on what she means by the two of us teaming up. I listen closely for her next words as I scale the tunnel, forearms pushing me forward as the light from the vent I had entered grows bigger and brighter.

"Oh, you know. Like how you and I both thought of hiding out here without even conversing with one another. Seriously, it's a no brainer."

Oh. So that's what she meant. Just a simple relation to our trains of thought when it came to finding a hiding place. Never implying that anything romantic or-or… well, romantic had to do with it. Just a platonic, strategic pairing. Nothing more.

A part of me is disappointed at the notion.

"Why wouldn't you team up with Chuck?" I ask to fill the gap, not at all hiding my downhearted reaction. "He's definitely faster than me, and smaller."

"No, he's too light. Not to mention he gets a bit antsy in tight spaces."

Go figure. The guy seriously has some undiagnosed ADHD.

"Why not Bomb, then? He's heavier than me."

"Too slow. You're perfect."

I'm what? Perfect?

We've reached the vent of my room, the face of my cage a solid foot ahead of me. Light showers us through the thin rails in orange slits.

"Oh!" I rotate to her, finally facing her after all this time. "That's funny because I thought we weren't compatible." I retort, pointing back and forth between the two of us.

She blinks, her arms holding her up as she huddles behind my feet. "Yeah, um, well, you know. Some of the," she mutters as she moves closer. And closer. And closer.

Oh my god! What is she doing?!

The humor in the air vanishes as she creeps forward, closing in on me and I swear I'm about to lose my shit.

Is she… is she… ?!

"variables changed. So…" She ventures.

As she gets even closer, I scuttle backwards in terror until my back is pressed against the ventilation grate, my hands planting into the walls at my sides. Sweat prickles my spine and my innards quiver uncontrollably.

She has me cornered, cornered like a predator stalking its prey; only this predator is a young woman who's smiling and crawling up to me until her nose is a mere inch from mine, one hand holding her up between my sprawled legs and the other extended by my ear, meaning to cup my head. And the prey is but a boy whose heart's beating at a million miles an hour, barely able to wrap his head around the idea that such a girl is insinuating, planning, even attempting something that he's never imagined to do with her.

"Oh, um, variables. Hah! Um, so uh… what-what are we doing here?" I stammer, a nervous laugh escaping my throat.

What _are _we doing here?! If we're doing what I think we're doing, then… then… Do I do it? Do we do it? Should we do it? Can we do it? I may not know for sure but the one thing I'm certain of is this: I want to do it.

Her eyes, her beautiful, gem-like eyes draw me in like that of a mystical siren's; hypnotizing me to answer her call and go to her, to bend to her every will, want, and need as well as my own. Her lips, as pink and plump as that of a rose petal's, beckons me to place them to mine, to see for myself how well they fit together. Her hair, shining and curly as ever, is tempting me to unravel the roped strands of silvery locks and entangle my fingers in them, to feel just how soft and amazing it is in my hands, to weave through her scalp and neck. Her body, slender and emanating with warmth, taunts me to touch it. To grab onto; to grip the curve of her waist, to rub up and down the length of her back, to relish in the warmth and absolute wonder of her figure. But more than anything, I want her to do everything I want to do to her back to me just as passionately; just as much as I want.

Just as I'm about to lean forward and dive into these strange and bewildering desires, something behind me gives way and I fall backwards, my head slamming into the hardwood floor of my bedroom hard and painfully.

"We're getting out." Silver replies simply and everything that I was thinking and wanting; from the purpose of her actions to the fantasies swimming in my cranium; all dissolve at the realization of the present.

"Oh! Right." I say, trying to brush off whatever the hell I was thinking and feeling just seconds ago. "Getting out. Right."

I push myself up, scooting my body out of the hole in the wall quickly, completely and totally flustered. Silver does the same, only without the embarrassment of thinking that we were going to miraculously make out.

God fucking dammit! What the hell was I thinking?! As if she's ever wanted to do something like that with me! As if she ever even thought of doing something like that with me! And I wanted to do it with her! I wanted to do all of those things with her and more. I still want to do those things with her.

What the fuck is wrong with me?!

"Hah!" An unexpected voice sounds off like a firework exploding in the middle of the night. We whip to it simultaneously to find lo and behold the jock from before whirl into view, pointing at the two of us from the door, lazy-eyed and swaying. "Found ya!" He laughs a little too loud and runs off, grinning goofily like the drunken teen he now is.

Silver stands to her feet, brushing dust off from her jeans before skipping away and out of my room as if nothing had ever happened. As if I hadn't nearly initiated a full on make out session with her.

Wait! Why did I? Why would I ever try something like that? I've never done anything like that in my entire life. Never once kissed anyone for that matter, let alone snogged. So why now? Of all times and all places and of all people?! Why?

Oh god! I think I know what's wrong with me! I just hope I'm wrong.

Author's Note: Wow. Just, wow. Seriously, it's amazing how long this took to make. It's kinda embarrassing. I hope the length of this chapter makes up for the delay of its debut. Hope ya like it! Stay tuned!


	4. Bob Ross and Chocolate Cake?

For weeks, my dreams have been haunted by a silver angle. She glows in the gloom of the darkness, her eyes like flickering candles, her hair long and flowing like white sheets hanging out to dry on a windy day, shimmering in the sunlight. She corners me into a wall, her hands drifting as if going to touch me. But she never does, her ghost-like limbs lingering above me; wanting, needing. She breathes, giggles, and sings in my ears, smiling sweetly as she pulls away only to levitate back, closer than before. Her slender form hovers over me, emanating warmth and light, drawing me nearer and nearer still, like a moth drawn to a flame. My being quivers as she approaches; begging for her to hold me in her arms, to run her fingers through my hair, to kiss my lips, to cup my face in those glistening hands of hers. And just when I'm about to grasp her outstretched fingers, she vanishes in an explosion of dust and pixies like some kind of fairy. And then I wake up.

I'm sure you all don't need some complex degree in forensics to sift through what this means. I figured it out the first night I went to sleep after Chuck and Bomb's "get together". At first, I blamed it on the cup of beer I just _had _to down in front of that bastard airhead who called me a fucking shortstack.

I swear to god! I am not that fucking short! Dammit!

… Anyway… Wait! What was I talking about? Ugh! It's on the tip of my tongue… oh, right! I was talking about how my haywire hormones are driving me up the wall even in my sleep. God! Adolescence sucks!

You'd think that by now I'd be used to it. That after "the talk" given by my health teacher not so long ago, that I'd be able to handle my chemical crazed emotions now that I knew exactly what they were. That by now, being a young adult out of high school, I might've become accustomed to the overwhelming sensations of appreciating the curves and appearances of women and wasn't drawn to them like some love-struck puppy. That I've already accepted the fact that as much as I'm attracted to girls (not naming anyone specifically), that not a single one of them would want some intolerable ass-aka _moi_-for a significant other and I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life alone.

But no. I'm not. And why, exactly? Because I'm funny that way.

The large piece of paper before me is gradually being filled in by the slow, deliberate strokes of my pencil. The scrapes of graphite echo quietly throughout the room, accompanied by the scribbling of my fellow students. The class is in the middle of our daily prompt, practicing our sketching skills with different kinds of pencils and shading techniques. I'm a sucker for cross hatching, yet even the soothing symphony of artists creating masterpieces can't divert my mind from that night's events.

For days I've been at war with myself, pushing and pulling the two ends of rope in a wretched game of Tug-a-War, desperately attempting to figure out what the actual hell I was feeling, and why I wanted to fucking kiss Silver in a goddamn ventilation shaft!

I've gone through it all as if it were a case for a murder and what I've found is this: maybe it was the alcohol coursing through both of our consciouses, causing us to go about the circumstances of being is such close quarters together and being full of drunkening sexual desires differently; the adrenaline of playing an active game in a house full of intoxicated teens raising our energetic minds; and finally, the only other reasn that I could come up that was applicable to be considered a reason at all being that I'm going insane and need immediate clinical help. In other words, there's a funny farm out there with my name on it. Of course, there is one more possibility, yet I refuse to even think about it. Just the mere mention of it makes me wanna barf up my breakfast on my artwork.

The kitchen rooster clock my professor uses for a timer chimes suddenly, signaling the end of our sketch time. Said professor taps the ringing comb of the metal bird and the billowing gonging is replaced by the muffled shifting and movement of students packing up their supplies.

"Time's up!" Professor Kizewski bellows from his desk. "Leave your drawings on your easels, clean up, and then you may leave. Be sure to complete this week's project by Friday. If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times: I do not accept late work."

As I'm shoving my collection of secondhand pencils into my backpack, people all around me rush down the long stairsteps taking up two-thirds of the classroom, stomping heavily as they head for the double doors. A sleeve smacks my cheek as I crouch down to pick up my bag, and when I stand up a girl shouts in my ear, calling out to her friend. I give her a dirty look as she passes, but she's too preoccupied with her so-called BFF to even notice that I exist. I huff, shouldering the strap and I'm just about to book it when the professor calls out, "Mr. Red, would you mind staying at your station for just a moment? I need to talk to you."

Oh shit!

I freeze in place, anxiety washing over me like a tidal wave. Never before has he requested of me to stay behind for chitchat, not once even called on me during class. Hell! I thought he didn't even know I was here in the first place, or at least I thought he knew me to be one of those kids who fade into the background and go unnoticed the entire year.

I stand by the easel tensely, bouncing on the balls of my feet. I consider making a run for it to avoid confronting the professor in all, but such a golden opportunity would never be so graciously bestowed upon me, no matter how much I prayed and pleaded. The class is now clear of all students, and Kizewski is already making his way towards me, his shoes squeaking against the polished, paint-splattered floorboards. If I'd left earlier, I bet he wouldn't have pulled me aside for whatever he had in store for me, mainly because he couldn't have if I would've already been gone and halfway across the campus by now.

Professor Kizewski is a small, older man with sagging eyebrows and elongated crows feet embedded in the corners of his light grey eyes, a symbol of a life half-spent laughing and smiling. Not being a Florida native, he resorts to wearing khakis and some kind of sweater nearly everyday despite the intense heat stinking up his office and classroom, his short cropped hair topping off his foreign look. Happily married and employed, Kizewski works here at Avian Academy as a professor of studio art. He's one of those teachers who hangs outdated memes on the walls and lets kids eat in his class as long as they up clean up the mess afterwards. And although his attempts at connecting with the younger students he teaches brings him little justice, he's still 's respected for his efforts.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." He says, stepping around my easel. "I hope I'm not keeping you from anything. This won't take long."

Professor Kizewski's one of the very few people I don't lose my shit over. He's way too kind for me to risk breaking what little of a relationship is between us. Not to mention he doesn't get onto me for slumping into class late or being in a bad mood. Once another kid asked him why and he replied with, "People always think that we need to be happy and smiling all the time, that we should ignore negative behavior. But how can we truly appreciate the joy of life if we never have the bad days to value the good ones?" After that, the kid looked back at me, disgusted that such a wise person was siding with someone like me, and I flipped him off with my tongue sticking out of my mouth coyly.

I swear, Kizewski's the spawn of Bob Ross. And that's why I like him more than most people.

"No, it's all good." I retort, sheepishly placing my cold, clammy hands in the pocket of my hoodie. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Well, I'm just a little worried."

"About what?"

"You."

Wait, what?! He, a college professor who has a million other things to occupy his attention rather than the welfare of his students, is worried about me?!

"I'm sorry, what?" I squeak out, stunned by this unbelievable revelation.

"I've noticed that you haven't been yourself lately and I wanted to make sure you were doing okay."

Is it possible to question your upbringing—which lacked both caring and comfort from others-if anyone, literally _anyone, _told you that?

I force air in and out of my nose in order for me to not pass out from overexposure of kindness given off by this single, humble man. "N-No. I'm fine."

He shouldn't have to worry about me. He shouldn't even care about me at all. I'm a nobody who just so happens to be good with a pencil and paintbrush and here he is thinking that he can come in as one of those parental figures to those troublesome kids you see in movies. Sure, I never exactly got the love and attention necessary for a person to grow up normal, but I can manage without it. I'll be fine without his or anyone's parenting. I have been all my life. Doesn't he get that?

He hums, seemingly unconvinced, and turns to my paper that's still clipped to the metal stand of my art station. He inspects it with interest, his eyes darting across the expanse of pencil markings as if he's at an art gallery. He puts one hand in a pant pocket and the other to his chin, stroking the patchy stubble. He smiles.

"This is interesting."

"Excuse me?" I ask, confused.

"You see, Mr. Red, I've had you in this class for some time now, and I've recognized a pattern. You're a good artist and you always make more than adequate work. Yet whenever you're especially quiet in class, you tend to draw stuff like this."

Oh god! Sweat prickles my spine, the blood in my veins running ice cold in the heat of the arid classroom in the middle of September, not to mention in Florida.

"Is there a reason?" Professor Kizewski questions.

"Is there a reason for what?" I return stupidly.

Oh god… oh god oh god oh god! He's gonna… He's asking… He's-

"Is there a reason why you like drawing this girl?"

The drawing is that of the girl in my dreams—of course, I'd never tell him that. Her long curls frame her angelic face, her feathery bangs veiling her half-mast eyes. She's smiling crookedly, almost smirking; one of her shoulders higher than the other. There have to be at least 3 dozen other drawings of her in the wire basket where we turn in our assignments.

"I-I-I-I-I… er, um…" I stammer, rubbing the back of my neck uncomfortably, the cloth of my bag's strap burning in the palm of my hand as I grip it harder.

The professor chuckles in a bemused manner, shaking his head with that same grin plastered on his face.

I know that laugh. I know that fucking laugh and it's not good. Not good at all!

Before I came here to study art and architecture, I had one last session with my anger management therapist, Matilda, before being released by the court. Yet with it being my final visit, she wanted to make it one-on-one. You know, personal.

It was weird going without Chuck, Bomb, and Terrence. The building certainly did seem quieter when it was just the two of us.

In the dictionary, there's a picture next to the word _awkward_. In it, there's a young, red-headed man seated on a floor pillow being observed by a boring hippy lady, wishing the clock would tick by faster so that he could pack up the rest of his belongings and hop onto the next plane out of there. In all actuality, though, there isn't a picture by the word. But there should be!

Matilda kept shooting her typical questions asking how I was doing, what I'd been up to, and what my horoscope was saying; and I kept answering with my oh-so charming dull replies. I could tell I was getting on her nerves with them (that's what made these discussions worth going to) when she decided to throw yet another one of her wannabe psychologist inquiries: did I recently find someone to date? Let's just say that the rest of the session ended in a slamming door and a rather satisfied Matilda having found it very entertaining of how tripped up I was after meeting the girl at the speed dating event. Yet it was her lighthearted chuckle that followed me out her place and down the street all the way to my house where it taunted me for hours. And that same chuckle has still followed me all the way over here and out of my professor's mouth.

"N-No! It's not like that!" I cry out. "She's just my friend's sister."

"Oh!" He inquires, an air of disbelief and amusement about his statement. His eyebrows rise steadily, his wrinkles stretching up his temples.

My anger is already taking flight, fluttering through my being like a wildfire spreading through a dry forest.

"There's nothing going on between us!" I yell, a frown creasing my brow.

"Oh, of course. I can clearly tell that whatever _is_ between you and this young woman is completely platonic by the many sketches you have turned in to me." He voices, sarcasm practically dripping from his tongue. And here I was thinking he's the kind of guy who doesn't mock his students and paints "happy little trees".

An angry warmth creeps up my neck and I'm just about to blow when Kizewski continues.

"You know, there's nothing wrong with liking this girl. In fact, I don't see why you should be embarrassed of it."

"Embarrassed? Embarrassed of what?!" I bark out. "There is literally nothing going on between us. We're not dating, we're not seeing each other. We're not even friends. She's nothing but a stupid girl who won't leave me alone. And why the hell would she even want me like that?! She hates me and I hate her!"  
…

Oh. My. Fucking. God!

Once seething with rage, I shrink in on myself like a crumbling building. At that very moment, I wanted nothing more than a lightning bolt to strike me right then and there so that I wouldn't have to suffer one more second of this goddamn silence.

I just yelled at my teacher. Oh my god, I just yelled at my teacher! I just yelled at the sweetest middle-aged man who's been nothing but nice (although a little too nosy) to me. And what do I do? I blow up like a fucking volcano all because he can't see that as much as I know that I'm struggling with my feelings for some girl, I refuse to enact on them. That there's a good, viable reason why I could never be with anyone, let alone her.

What have I done?

"I see." Professor Kizewski mutters after a moment. By the way he looks, it would seem that I had slapped him across the face rather than screamed at him like some raving lunatic. But more than anything, he looks sad and confused; hurt by my declaration. "Well, I guess that will do for today. I'll see you next class." He turns away, his figure hunched and small.

With what little shred of dignity I possess, I trail down the steps and make my way to the exit. Before I leave, I look back once more and the last thing I see is the rooster kitchen clock, it's plastic tail feathers turned to me as if it refuses to even look at me for what I had done to its owner. I'd do the same, too, if I saw myself just a minute ago. I trudge out of the room and out of the building wishing I wasn't such a hot-head.

Remember how I told you how I've never lost my temper in front of my professor? How I respect him and think highly of him in spite of his copious amounts of ancient memes and snacking habits? Well, now I'm not so sure the feeling is mutual.

After the makeshift therapy session between me and the incarnation of Bob Ross that ended in a total shitfest, I went straight home to complete my schoolwork. The calm of my room, as enjoyable as it is after a long day of dragging my ass across the campus and listening to the monotonous droning of college professors, is more like the quiet you hear in an interrogation room. You know, the kind where the detectives have poked and prodded at you relentlessly and before you know it, they've figured out you're responsible for the crime and they're standing over you, looking down as if staring at some sickening villain. And the worst part is that you know full, goddamn well that it _was _you who committed the crime.

The creak of my bedroom door gives way and I turn to it, steering my focus away from the math problems in my notebook. Bomb peeks his head in, his pale blue eyes shining brilliantly behind his red-rimmed glasses. Thankfully, he's learned his lesson of barging into peoples' rooms without a warning and now approaches me with either a knock or a greeting that doesn't make me leap out of my chair.

"Hey, Red?" Says Bomb.

"What?" I ask, admittedly said with a short bite.

"Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to check up on you. You good?"

What is with everyone feeling the need to make sure that I'm okay?! Is today National Check On Your Asshole of a Friend's Health and Wellness Day?

"Yeah, I'm fine." I utter. I wonder how many times I've said that in the past three hours.

Like Professor Kizewski, Bomb isn't persuaded so easily by my response and steps inside with Chuck behind him, who's smile that's always ever so present 24/7 is replaced with his teeth chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Great. They're both concerned about me.

I drop my pencil on the splayed sheets of paper splattered over my desk and rub at my tired eyes, my elbows dropping to rest on my knees. As grateful as I am to have friends who care about me, the whole fiasco of my afterclass conversation replays behind my eyelids. The last thing I need is a similar outcome between me and the guys.

"Look, buddy." I start. "It's been a long day and I'm just tired. I promise, I'm okay. Really."

The two look at each other then back to me, they're features unmodified.

Yeah, they're not fooled.

"Red… you do know that you can tell us anything, right?" Bomb remarks, his tone aloof.

I don't blame him for not being 100% confident that if something were to bug me I'd come running to him and Chuck wailing, yet his uncertainty reminds me that I've forgotten that they're not just my roommates or my fellow anger management case studies. They're my friends, and I _should _go to them when something happens and talk about it. But how the hell am I supposed to explain to them that I've caught feelings for the beautiful girl who lives down the hall and has been having dreams about her? How I'm half convinced that I'm in love with her, _and_ who also consequently happens to be Chuck's, my best friend's, sister?! I'd hate to be on the receiving end of that sentence.

"Of course." I lie. "Why do you ask?"

"You've been acting off lately." Chuck chimes in. "You've been really quiet ever since we had the get together, which is saying something because you're not exactly the quiet type. Did something happen?"

Two things: 1) It was definitely a party, not a get together. I don't know how many times I have to repeat that before it gets through their skulls. And 2) oh ho ho ho ho boy! Something did happen. Er, more like something didn't happen. Let's recall the night where Silver and I were crawling through the vents in the house, alone in a tight, dark space and hidden from prying eyes. Then my post freakout taking place of nearly kissing Silver before finding myself flat on my back with my head out of the clouds and on the floor, realizing that she had never meant to imply such an atrocity of kissing me. Didn't even cross her damn mind! So yeah! It's what _didn't_ happen that's gotten me so shaken up for the past two weeks.

"Actually, you've been acting funny ever since Silver moved in, now that I think about it." Bomb voices, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

Oh fuck!

My spine straightens like a metal rod, my eyes widening.

"Yeah, I noticed that too." Chuck retorts.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…

"Does that have something to do with it?" Chuck presumes, seemingly on the edge of blowing up.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

Of fucking course that has something to do with it! It has everything to do with it! The fucking girl of my dreams moves into my damn house without so much as a warning and I'm just expected to be a-ok about it! What the shit do you expect?!

I use all my strength to relax my face from it's horror stricken stiffness. "N-No." I stutter.

Goddammit! I need to get control of that.

"Really?" Chuck states, a single eyebrow raised on his head of windswept golden locks.

I guess my contemptuous fits of pouting weeks before and after Silver arrived doesn't aid me in convincing them that I'm all honky-dory. Screw me and my stupid grudges!

I groan suddenly and slam my face into my hands, elbows digging into my kneecaps.

There's no going around this. There's no chance that I can change their minds that Silver's staying here has anything to do with me acting out of turn, not to mention my distancing from the young woman. Yet there's no way in hell I'd admit that there's more to my withdrawing from Silver than just her newfound presence. No way to explain that my lust-drunken hormones are driving me nuts every time I fall asleep and dream of her ghostly being drifting above me, luring me like a blood-hungry siren; or see her walk across the living room or-or watch her solve complex equations effortlessly as she twirls the ends of her braids or hear her make indications of the different logical fallacies when she watches a movie or-

ARGHHHHHHHHH! See! I'm fucking obsessed with her! I have a serious problem here and if Chuck and Bomb (Chuck especially) find out, then I might as well dig up my own grave and bury myself.

Come on, think! Think, dumbass!

Oh! I got it!

"Fine!" I snap. "Yes, Silver and the get together are what's up with me!"

The two continue to watch me where I sit, taken back but not all that surprised by my outburst. They've lived with me long enough to become accustomed to my bouts, which I can't tell if it's a good or bad thing. If anything, they lean in closer.

I continue. "You know why I've been so quiet? Why I've been so standoffish? Why I isolate myself nowadays? Because everytime I turn my back, you two find a way to pull something off."

"Wait! What?" Chuck avows, astounded.

Guess he wasn't expecting that in the least. Good.

"Yeah." I assert. "When you invited Silver to come live with us, you did that without consulting me. When you and Bomb held that "get together", you did that without consulting me. Are you getting the picture? I'm sick and tired of you guys running around doing stuff all willy nilly without ever wondering if I want to do it!"

I swear to you, I do not, repeat, _do not _take any pride in throwing Chuck and Bomb under the bus. In fact, I feel horrible for doing so. Yet not only is it a way for me to weasel out of confessing my instant change in romantic perspective, but it's the only way. And what I said is true. I hate that they do all these things without even asking if I'm okay with it and it most definitely needs to be addressed. It's the perfect cover up. Plus, I don't have to lie to their faces just to save my sorry ass.

"... oh." Bomb voices after a moment, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I… I'm sorry."

Bomb might as well have ripped my heart out and salsa danced on it because when his voice broke at the end, that's how it felt in my chest.

Bomb is the gentlest giant I know. He may not be the smartest bird in the tree, but what he lacks in smarts he makes up for in firepower, referring to the amount of thoughtfulness he possesses and legit firepower. What can I say? The guy's got something special when it comes to flint and steel and a heart of gold.

"Yeah, me too." Chuck bows his head, his hands clasped behind his back. I don't think I've ever seen him so apologetic before.

I sigh heavily, feeling a sort of weight lifted off of my chest as I lean back in my chair. "It's all good, guys."

Covering up for something as big as having a crush on your friend's sister won't be easy. Everyday will be a challenge where I'll have to commit myself to pretending that Silver doesn't exist, all the while going about my daily routine without allowing doubts to slip into my friends' minds. So far, I haven't been doing the greatest job at anything on that agenda and, if anything, I'm already drained of energy, patience, and sanity after what few attempts I have acted upon. I'll have to be extra careful in the oncoming future if I want to come out of this alive.

"Hey!" I perk up, forcing the corners of my mouth to go up into a smile. "What do ya say we get a bite to eat? Just the three of us. My treat."

At the mention of free food, the both of them alight with their casual grins. I knew they couldn't deny such an offer.

After shoving on a pair of shoes, we drive in Bomb's vintage VW van to Bruno's Pizza. There we eat two entire large meat lovers and an order of garlic knots all to ourselves, washing it down with the restaurant's homemade sweet tea and lemonade combination.

I have to admit, it's nice to hang out with the guys again. As messy and childish as they are, considering they're in an immense battle of blowing straw wrappers and pieces of pepperoni at each other, I missed being around the two knuckleheads. I've almost forgotten what it's like to be a teenage boy. I can't help sticking a few bits of greasy meat to Bomb's glasses as Chuck vigorously puffs a slightly crumpled piece of paper at my nose.

To my surprise, Bomb and Chuck apologize once again for their inattention to my inclusion by ordering me a dessert. It's Bruno's _piece de resistance _of the menu; a slice of triple chocolate cake topped with buttercream and a chocolate-covered strawberry (which I paid for, but it's the thought that counts), and like the twisted clumps of garlic-powdered bread half-chewed in my mouth, my stomach twists into knots.

I still feel guilty for calling them out for never asking for my opinion on decisions, even though it was high time we hailed to it. And now I feel even worse as I help myself to the forked bites of delicious, chocolatey goodness. It sucks that I can't tell them the truth about my behavior, and what sucks even more is that I know that I never can. If they were to ever discover that I of all people have started to romantically like our dame roommate who is, no less, Chuck's sister, they'd never look at me the same way ever again. They'll shun me, turn their backs on me, never want to associate themselves with me ever again. And I'd let them. I'd let them because I deserve it. I know I do.

But here and now, with Bomb shoving my face into the slice of cake and me smearing both of their clothes in sugary brown streaks, the other customers looking scornfully at the band of misfits causing a ruckus during their dinner; this right here, this very moment, is too precious for me to risk losing over some silly emotions that I can't control. So for now, I'll keep quiet and continue living my life with my fellow outcasts a little while longer.

I already know that tomorrow's gonna be hell, and the day after that and the day after that and maybe for weeks to come. I'll be miserable as I carry this burden, lips sealed and heart torn. But if it means that I can keep my friends, then I'll hold it in for as long as humanly possible.


	5. Breakfast with a Side of Panic

The sun beams on my face in warm rays, wiggling through a crack in the curtains. It splashes over my freckled, paint-splattered nose solacingly. I can hear the singing of the local early birds, twittering and cooing outside along with the muffled music playing on Silver's old radio hooked up in the kitchen, blasting some pop songs from the early 2000s.

Oh, look! Another glorious morning.

It makes me sick.

I grumble before switching over to my side, away from the sunlight, and aggressively fold my pillow over my ears, screwing my eyes shut.

Can't they fucking understand that _some_ people are trying to enjoy their day off?! Can't they be quiet for at least the rest of the morning without disturbing my session of sleeping in?!

Just as I'm about to lull off, someone turns up the music so loud I nearly jump off the mattress as the beat vibrates through the floor. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a spew of colorful cuss words from escaping my mouth.

Jesus fucking christ! What is wrong with you people?!

"Just the Way You Are" by Bruno Mars blasts all the way from downstairs and through the cotton intestines of my pillow submerging my head and a groan of aggravation rumbles in my throat.

Well, there's no going back to bed now.

Slowly but surely, I prop myself up on one arm through my tangled cocoon of sheets, bleary-eyed and ruffled. I crawl out of bed and trudge to my bathroom where I brush my teeth, comb my hair (as best as I can, mind you) and change into a pair of sweats and a black T-shirt, still very much half asleep and admittedly wording the lyrics of the song resonating through the house.

I swear, it's as if the band's playing in our living room with how loud the music is. It's a wonder whoever's down there hasn't burst an eardrum.

As I splash my face with cold water in an attempt to wake myself up, I look up and survey the damage from last night.

After I'd finished my rounds of delivering pizzas, I spent the rest of last night and the first few hours of this morning painting. I may or may not have lost track of time and only realized it when I almost dozed off on my still wet canvas, eventually trudging to bed at approximately 3 am. So it's no surprise for me to find that nearly every inch of exposed skin is caked in dried acrylic paint.

I waste the next five minutes scrubbing at the streaks and splotches till my skin is clear and rubbed raw and saunter down the long flight of stairs, kneading at my eyes absentmindedly. When I enter the kitchen through the swinging double acting door, the scent of greasy, cooking food slams into my nostrils hard, but welcoming. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns; the whole nine yards greet my senses and saliva floods my mouth. The music is louder than ever and threatens to start cracking the glass of the windows.

I turn to the cooking area to see who exactly is up this early making breakfast and trying to pull a Marty McFly from the first scene of the movie, only to stop in my tracks as the slender, feminine physique of our only girl roommate stands at the stove, flipping a fried egg and humming.

Oh, great. It's her.

I can feel my brow furrow over my eyeline, my jaw hardening at the sight of her. I try backpedaling out of the kitchen before she can notice my presence, but then she spins on her heel with a plate in hand and halts midstep when her gaze catches sight of her intruder.

I really don't think it's my fault that the muscles in my face relax when she smiles at me. How her hair-free from their braids, whirls against her long, thin back in a waterfall of silvery curls-makes me want to take a step closer to her. How the flour smearing her cheek and forehead, crinkling as she grins, makes me want to brush it away. How her turquoise eyes gleam in the dull light of dawn, make me want to smile back.

Nope. Definitely not my fault.

But I don't do any of these things, and why, you might ask? Because I'm nothing but a jackass who doesn't know shit about emotions towards women, that's why!

"Hi!" Silver quips, a little too cheerfully for my taste at this hour.

"Uh… hi." I return with much less enthusiasm.

"What are you doing up?" She asks, fiddling with the popping strips of bacon, still looking at me.

Small talk has never been one of my strongest suits. Hell! I don't think it's even one of my suits at all. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a very awkward, antisocial person. Not to mention that I've been trying to keep Chuck's sister away from me ever since she set foot in this house. So not only do I have to face Silver as mixed feelings bubble and surface, but I also have to juggle the anxiety of keeping up the conversation without fucking it up.

"Oh, gee. I don't know. I guess I just couldn't sleep when a certain _someone_ was listening to 2010's greatest pop hits at six in the morning." I retort.

So much for not fucking it up.

But seriously, how has she not gone deaf?! And more importantly, why aren't the boys down here? They ought to be, what with songs blaring them and me awake. Bomb's a heavy sleeper, so much so that he once slept through a hurricane, so there's that. And Chuck, I have to assume, is out on his morning jog, free from a house on the brink of collapse as the music so heavily tremor the very earth that earthquakes could be green with envy.

Silver's thin eyebrows knit together in confusion and she pivots to her radio propped on the dining table, now trumpeting a Taylor Swift song. She dashes to it speedily and turns down the volume.

Of fucking course Silver has to be listening to the one musical artist who has trouble with romance. Sure don't know what that's like, huh?

…

In case you didn't know, I'm being sarcastic.

"Sorry." She apologizes, strolling back to her task of rotating the shredded, pale potatoes. "I couldn't hear what was playing over the food cooking."

"Mm-hmm." I hum, leaning my hip against the counter.

I can't help but notice how Silver is acting. Not in some malicious or nervous way, but just her body language. And what it's saying is that she's clearly inexperienced in the kitchen. She shuffles through the drawers like she doesn't know where anything is, puckering her lips frustratedly as she struggles to turn over a simmering egg, panicking when grease pops in the hot pans.

Huh. And I thought culinary skills ran in the family.

Chuck, on the other hand, is quite the little chef. He goes above and beyond when he makes anything, even if it's just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. So it's a bit of a surprise for me to find that his sister is nothing short of a rookie cook.

Before I know it, Silver's looking at me again.

"What?" Asks her.

Fuck! I was staring at her! I was fucking staring at her like some creeper! What the hell is wrong with me?!

I shake my head to escape my frantic thoughts. "Oh! Uh, y-your pancakes are burning."

She turns to the flat cakes and hastily takes them off of the griddle and onto a separate plate, forgetting that I was practically ogling her.

Phew. That was close.

I resort to observing my feet for the remainder of the morning because the next time I look at her carelessly I just might get the balls to march up and kiss her. Ha! As if.

Now that I'm on this whole "Keep my friends close before they find out that I got the hots for Silver and shun me for life" thing going for me, I have to be nice to Silver because apparently it's considered rude when you're trying to ignore someone's existence. And in doing so, I make Chuck and Bomb suspicious. And I can't be having that, not if I want them to stay my friends without a single uncertain thought sprouting into their consciousnesses. So changing tactics on treating the young woman was what I had to do.

But hey! That doesn't mean I have to be all sunshine and daisies with her. I hate her, not love her.

… right?

"Oh my god!" Silver suddenly shrieks, making me leap a full foot in the air. I practically pirouette to her, the literal shit scared out of me, and come face to face to a blazing heap of plastic and batter scorching away on the furnace.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I shriek.

"I don't… I don't-" She stammers, wide-eyed. "I… what do we do?!"

"Wha- We…"

What do we do what do we do what do we do?!

The heat of the flames causes sweat to bead on my forehead and underarms, panic coursing through me like fire eating away at my clothes.

"W-Water! We need water!"

"Yes! Water!" She repeats, dashing to the cabinet.

I race to the sink, flipping on the faucet and cupping my hands under the trickle of water before throwing it at the stove, narrowingly missing the mini bonfire. Droplets from my previous cast slosh my bare feet and I fill my hands again before tossing it, over and over and over.

Shit shit shit shit shit! Why isn't it working?!

Silver appears at my side, a handful of paper cups stacked in her arms and starts filling them rapidly, whimpers emitting from her throat. I take two from her and shove them under the flow of water, run to the furnace, and pour the contents onto the inferno. It sizzles and pops furiously, making me jump back. Silver rushes forward and douses it again with her cups and a large puff of steam billows up into her face, hissing over the ending lyrics of "Shake it Off". Quickly, she grabs the spatula and scoops the smoking heap of charred pancake and melted plastic fork into the sink and under the waterfall of cool water. I hurry to turn the stove off and just as my hand reaches the handle, my feet slip from underneath me and I grab at the first thing that touches my outstretched hand, which just so happens to be Silver's, and we go down like a ton of bricks.

The back of my head collides into the sopping wet floor, causing white to burst behind my eyelids, and I howl. Something heavy falls on top of me, warm and solid, and causes me to wheeze as it slams into my ribs. I have to take a minute to compose myself, my head aching and my breaths short. I'm 50% certain I blacked out for a solid 30 seconds.

Argh! What the fuck just happened?

As the pain gradually eases, I blink my eyes open to find silver curls strewn on top of me and an angelic face meet mine, a full three inches away from the tip of my nose. Silver, disheveled, and I jump at the sight of each other. She stares down at me, her turquoise eyes wide and intelligent as ever, her petal pink lips slightly parted. Her hands are planted on my chest, her legs tangled with mine; her slim, flat stomach pressed against my own. The scent of rosewater and smoke have never been so strong in all mg life. My hands flatten on the puddled floor, soaking in the cold, spilled water, my heart on hyperdrive.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit!

Silver's on top of me! Holy motherfucking shit! SILVER'S ON TOP OF ME!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuCK FUCK FUCK!

Th-Think! G-Gotta think!

This is… well, this is unexpected. And-And an accident. This is nothing more than an accident.

Right? Right!

Yep, nothing more than a screw up of my feet and Silver having the misfortune of being in it with me. Er, more like on top of me.

But… oh god! Who am I kidding?!

Silver's on top of me and she's holding me and she's… and she's…and she's not moving. She's not moving to get off or squirm away as if she's laying atop a heap of garbage. No. She's still here. She's still here, upholstering her body above mine and-and breathing and blinking and-

"Hey!" A voice calls out.

Simultaneously, our heads spin to find that we have an audience. Chuck and Bomb are standing in the doorway, don in either their pajamas or running clothes, and are speculating us two as if they just walked in on us smooching each other. Chuck's practically blowing steam through his flared nostrils, his eyes glinting with unrelenting fury.

Oh lord! This isn't going to be good.

We scramble to our feet, slipping and sliding along the pond of a kitchen floor riddled with empty paper cups, as I stammer to find my voice.

"Oh! Well, I mean, she was, you know, she was just thanking me for putting out the fire." I stumble, clutching the countertop for balance.

"I'm sorry. Putting out the fire?" Repeats Silver incredulously, grabbing a hold of a drawer handle.

"Yeah." I return, wringing out the water mopped up by my pants and shirt. "You know, using water was my idea."

Through the adrenaline and anxiety crazed storm taking place within me, I'm able to realize that arguing like this might take Chuck and Bomb's attention away from the fact that we were laying on each other just three seconds ago. Even though it was an accident (and my own love-crazed hormones not helping one bit), the boys are gonna need some convincing. Although I already know it was basically Silver who successfully doused the flames out, I'll try to win this stupid bickering battle if it means I can change their minds about mine and Silver's previous positions.

"It didn't work that well." Silver comments matter of factly.

"Yeah, well, maybe that's because you were panicking and I was the only one who wasn't."

Silver looks at me in disbelief, turning to the pair of boys, looking for help. Before she can say anything, though, Chuck gets there before her.

"Wait! There was a fire?!" He squawks.

"Whoa! Really?!" Bomb inquires just as astounded, his blue eyes glinting behind his glasses. "How big was it? What did you use to start it? What kind of…"

That's it! Their revelation of a real-life fire taking place just moments ago will be the perfect diversion from them returning back to the topic of Silver and me crashing together to the ground. Once again, Chuck and Bomb's goldfish-like attention spans have saved my sorry ass.

So I let them blabber about what had happened, knowing that their feverish conversation will end any thoughts they had earlier. I busy myself with using handfuls of paper towels to sponge up all the water on the floor and counters and then move on to opening some windows to release the smoke and steam clouding up the room. Yet after a solid four minute of rambling, frantic questions from the boys and speedily answerings from Silver, I'm just about to have a major migraine.

"Okay okay! Guys!" I yell over them till they quiet down. "Come on. It wasn't that big of a deal."

"'Wasn't that big of a deal?!'" Chuck enunciates, stepping a little too close towards me as he speaks. He never was good with personal space. "There was a fire! Right here in the house! And from what Silver's telling us, you were totally freaked out-" He indicates mirthfully, grinning like an idiot.

"Oh, please!" I cut him off, feeling too frustrated to tolerate his antics.

Seriously, there's no need for him to bring up my former freak fest when I saw the fire. If anything, Silver was just as flipped out about it as I was.

"Besides," I continue, finding another way to distract them from me. "it was nothing compared to what Bomb did at Matilda's joint."

I give it three seconds for it to work. 1… 2… 3-

Silver gasps at the side of me. "What happened at Matilda's?"

Bingo!

Bomb is just about to launch into the tale of how he'd once stocked his pockets full of chemicals during one of our anger management classes and blew up the building while doing yoga poses when I intervene.

"Story time later. Breakfast now." Says me.

While Silver was explaining what had happened in the kitchen, she'd started out with how she was making us breakfast. Why exactly? I have no idea. But what I do know is that I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday and I need to scarf down this meal here and now so that I can leave the house, get away from Silver, and proceed with my day.

I grab a plate from the pantry and use the forgotten spatula to stack my plate with now cold eggs, stiff hashbrowns, half-burnt pancakes, and grease-soaked bacon. The others continue to converse among one another, describing the events of that fateful day where we were blasted with a plume of smoke that singed our eyebrows, as I grab a fork and plop myself at the round dining room table, the back of my wet pants squishing into the flat wood of my chair uncomfortably. The others follow suit, still talking as they scoop their helpings out of pans and grab ketchup and maple syrup bottles. Before I know it, we're all seated with our food and dig into the meal. Although it's nothing compared to Chuck's homemade peanut butter and chocolate crêpes, it's better than most breakfasts I've had.

I shovel down forkfuls of food, pouring ketchup on my mixture of bacon bits, eggs, and potatoes and syrup on my flapjacks occasionally. The others chat as they eat, trying to get me to join in every so often, but with the glares I send them from under the long locks of red draping over my forehead, they pick up on the clue that I'm in no mood for communication real quick. I try to ignore their voices and the sound of chow being chomped savagely, for my mind is elsewhere.

Due to my hysteria during the chaotic events from earlier, I can barely remember what exactly I did in it. It's all blurred chunks of information that my gargled brain has yet to process, but I have no trouble recalling certain things. Like how when Silver was losing it when she accidentally set off the fire, she turned to me for help. Me of all people (probably just because I was the only other person with her). Or how when she was filling up the paper cups with water, her body was pressed into my back; her breaths beating down my neck, hotter than the blaze. How her palms, soft and warm, were pinned on my chest when we fell, one of them right over my heart.

God! I'm a sap, aren't I?

I'm just about to consider seeing a doctor about this when Bomb's voice booms above me, asking through a cheekful of pancakes, "So, Silver. Why did you make us breakfast?"

I can't help looking up at her at this, wondering what she will say.

Unexpectedly, she grows into a sort of sheepish state, placing her hands into her lap and bowing her head, turquoise orbs peeking up at us through her bangs.

I steer away from her immediately, eyes glued to the mound of red and yellow mush on my plate. I squeeze the handle of my metal fork till its hard edges threaten to break the skin of my fingers.

Jesus fucking Christ! Why was that so cute?! Why was her shying away like that-shrugging slightly, wedging her bottom lip between her teeth, her sleeve slipping off of her shoulder and revealing the smooth curve of her collarbone-so fucking hot?!

Get it together, Red! Get your shit together!

"Well…" Silver draws out. "I… okay. I have some news."

Don't look at her! Don't you dare look at her!

"Good news or bad news?" I hear Chuck ask, sounding excited.

"Definitely good news." She answers.

Don't you fucking look at her!

"Well, we're not getting any younger. Tell us!" Chuck exclaims. I can practically feel him giggedly smiling.

There's a moment of silence, so tight and so hot I'm almost persuaded that the air conditioner has been turned off, when Silver finally replies.

"I'm dying my hair!"

She's fucking what?!

I shoot up and inspect her as if she just said that she was gonna have a baby as the two boys explode with cheers, their silverware clattering to the table.

Uh… oh. I thought… I honestly thought that she made this feast for something else. Like to butter me up so that I'd finally become her pal, or something.

I bet that sounds selfish, huh? Not that I'd be manipulated by something as measly as food to turn into her best friend.

But no. It's nothing like that. She simply did all of this just to tell us that she'd decided to change the color of her hair.

And yet, as let down as I was by the true purpose of this meal, I'm still shocked.

I mean, don't get me wrong, Silver's hair is her hair. She can do whatever she wants with it. But… isn't it beautiful just the way it is?

Er, I mean, i-it's fine. The hair, I mean. Not beautiful. Just okay… I guess.

Okay, fine! Yes, I like her hair. Who wouldn't? It's long and luscious, a unique shade of blonde that has it glint in the sunlight like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

Of all things, why dye it? Why would she ever want to change such a perfect head of hair?

I don't dare ask.


End file.
